Wednesday, 28 May 1948. This morning we did not hasten to repack the things we had unpacked last night and had our first spell of loafing this morning, first since disembarking from the Marine Phoenix in February. We did not enjoy the rest particularly as we are all so eager to go to Portland Roads and to get the job finished. We had just about given up hope for this day when, around 3.30 P.M. the barge hove into sight around the tip of Red Island. It was an ordinary L.C.I., Landing Craft, Infantry, and was a relic of the war, of course, but an ideal thing for her job of carrying bulky cargoaround between the islands. Her captain was a black, her engineer while and her crew black, all of him. The skipper announced that he had come over to get us and after loading some lumber, would take our stuff aboard but did not quite know when. It turned out to be 2 A.M. when we began loading our gear on board, so really the journey belongs in tomorrow's entry. The day was gusty and blustery with sharp rain squalls very frequently, a good day for loafing. We had no visitors except Dick's son, Stan, who catches bush beef, butchers them and ships them to Thursday Island for the meat market there. Bess, an old black dog belonging to Stan, has adopted us and is a constant visitor, scratching a hole for herself in the sand where she lies and watches us lazily. Thursday, 27 May 1948. In pitch blackness and heavy rain we left Red Island Point, our gear loaded and snugly under a tarpaulin but with hardly any place for ourselves to lay our heads. The loading was accomplished with a surprising efficiency, after other such events, in spite of the darkness, and Bess ambled out from her hole in the sand to the head of the Jetty to see us go. By daylight, and under good climatic conditions, the trip would have been rather pleasant, threading between the many islands which here [illegible] the Torres Straits, but as it happened we could barely make out the loom of them through the cloud and scud, though the moon is barely past the full. Our sleeping was sketchy, Joe getting half of the black crew's bunk, Len a chair, George a desk in the wheel house and Van and I stayed up for the rest of the night, I getting an occasional snooze on a hatch cover. We were all glad when daylight finally came and we could at least see what we were doing. Thursday is at the head of a channel composed of the sides of Horn Island and Prince of Wales Island, the water was that lovely tropical metallic blue and the sun shone in short bursts. We tied up to the wharf at T.I. before 8 A.M., went ashore and had turtle steak for breakfast. Alagna was in port and also Cora and Yalate, both of them ships which had at one time seemed to be likely to transport us from Cairns, just at the end of the strike. There was no sign of Lochiel. Alagna brought mail for us and we were glad to have it but it also brought the news that the shipment of supplies ordered and arranged for before we left Cairns, which were to be delivered to Portland Roads by that ship, had not been sent. There can be no excuse except that possibly Burke's would not let Alagna stop at P.R. We have to thrash out that matter, as it is extremely serious. And now for Thursday Island. No beautiful, dreamy tropical isle, this: frangipani does not scent the air; the men are not clad in cool starched white linen and do not wear sun helmets; [illegible] are not to be seen on the women, nor does one observe the sarongs of the movies. It is a stark dump. The men are dirty and frowsty, their clothes old khaki, and most of them are plain sots - not just pleasant drunks but sots.